


The Winner's Curse

by babybluebutterfly



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1974), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Angst, Another English task my dudes, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Still pretty good so please enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluebutterfly/pseuds/babybluebutterfly
Summary: He remembered Myrtle, his lady, his wife, whom he had loved with all his heart, before she was cruelly stolen away. His heart beat faster, and a sort of giddy, insane joy possessed him. A chance to get back at the world for all the wrong it had done to him, at the low, low price of his sanity.One might call it the winner’s curse.





	The Winner's Curse

“Have you seen a yellow car?”

The mechanic jolted up with a start, fumbling to wipe his brow with an oily rag as he turned to the source of the voice. He had just opened his shop for the day, and he hadn’t been expecting visitors for a good while yet, especially not one this odd.

The man, standing quite ominously before him, stared at him with an unnerving, needle-like fixation. Everything about him seemed ‘off’, in some way, from the way his red eyes trembled and bulged within their sockets, to his sickly expression and dripping nose. His entire person emitted a looming malaise that increased by each silent moment shared between them.

“Can’t say I ‘ave, not recently, at least.” He replied, dropping the rag carelessly in his toolbox.

“Then when!?” The man snapped, with sudden volume, causing the mechanic to freeze in his movements.

Mentally, he recalled the large wrench in his toolbox, and reassured himself of its location; just in case. The man now stood, panting lightly, as if the strain of shouting had taken up all his energy. His eyes darted frantically across the room, seemingly looking for some exit from the situation. Eventually he refocused on the mechanic, and seemed to shrink slightly.

“Sorry, sorry. I just have to know.” He didn’t say any more; he looked weaker now, some calm had fallen over him.

With a sigh, the mechanic relented, nodding and opening a worn wooden drawer to rummage through some papers. He thought it would be best to just give the man what he wanted, in fear of another violent outburst. He didn’t want any blood on his hands.

“What’s your name?” He asked idly, trying to make conversation with the strange visitor.

“George,” he replied after a moment, almost hesitantly “George Wilson.”

~*~

By mid-afternoon, George found himself walking down a road in West Egg. He had what he needed, and his mind was clearer than it had been all day. A grim expression fixed itself across his face as he walked, thinking of what he might do. No panic or grief stirred his emotions as before. His mind was clear, and his thoughts were clouded by a single name; Gatsby. A name that was carved into the bullet of his loaded pistol. It sat snugly in his back pocket, an ever-present reminder of just how much pain this _Gatsby_ had put him through, taking his dearest wife Myrtle away from him, and how this was his one chance at retribution.

He rounded a corner, the massive mansion coming into view from behind the rows of bushy, billowing trees. It was illuminated with sunlight from behind, the slanting light casting an ominous shadow over the grounds before him. The tall, iron gates loomed over him too and, beyond that, a groundskeeper tended to a neatly manicured garden bed. The scene was one of perfection, a stark contrast to the rickety, ash-covered abode he and Myrtle shared, or had shared. In contrast, Gatsby’s abode reeked of self-indulgent luxury.

Wilson kept his distance, slipping around the side of the property to search for a more convenient entrance. He followed a row of hedges along the border of the great house, eventually finding a hole in the greenery where an animal had pushed it’s way through. Taking the opportunity, he sunk to the ground, squeezing through the gap.

He found himself in an open, grassy lawn, a single tree casting shade over the area, and began searching around for his target. He now knew what had to be done, and was sure that god, omnipresent and ever-loving, would see the reason behind his actions.

Several minutes of fruitless searching and sneaking around Gatsby’s domain passed before George encountered someone. He was a member of the serving staff, not much younger than George himself but towering in height compared to the thin and wiry frame of the smaller man. He confronted him quite suddenly with a light tap on the shoulder.

“What are you doing back here?” He asked, a deep voice adding an intimidating air to his words.

“I’m a guest,” George responded, then after a moment “I got lost.”

The servant raised an eyebrow sceptically.

“I don’t believe Mr Gatsby is expecting visitors today.” He frowned, and looked as if he was just about to escort George off to the nearest police station when another servant rounded the corner.

The newcomer was old and haggard looking, with a bushy, white moustache. He looked George over quickly before placing a hand on the younger servants shoulder. He whispered something in his ear, while George stood to the side, nervous, confused, and unsure whether he ought to be running or not. After a moment, the older man retreated, and the younger servant addressed George again.

“Uh, Mr Gatsby is out by the pool, sir.” He said meekly, gesturing toward what was, presumably, the pool.

George nodded at him, proceeding. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He rounded the corner of the house, and found himself face-to-face with Gatsby. He stood by a grand pool, wearing his swimmers. Gatsby smiled to himself, his posture relaxed, but with an underlying confidence. Slowly, he turned, his eyes meeting George’s. As he focused on George, that beaming smile faltered, and was replaced with an expression of unpleasant surprise, as if a particularly discomforting thought had crossed his mind. Or perhaps with a trace of recognition. In George’s mind, that seemed to seal his guilt. Then, in that moment, everything seemed to slow down. His hand wrapped slowly around his gun, pulling it from his pocket. He remembered Myrtle, his lady, his wife, whom he had loved with all his heart, before she was cruelly stolen away. As he aimed, his heart beat faster, and a sort of giddy, insane joy possessed him. It was then that he noticed the tears trickling erratically down his face.

A chance to get back at the world for all the wrong it had done to him, at the low, low price of his sanity. One might call it the winner’s curse.

His finger hovered over the trigger.

“God sees all…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudos if you enjoyed! Constructive criticism appreciated!


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